


Truth In Every Shepherd's Tongue

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby (dog), Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Folk Tales, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nymph Castiel, Poet Castiel, Poet Dean, Shepherd Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” and “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd”<br/>With Castiel as the Nymph and Dean as the Shepherd<br/>          ❀❀❀<br/><em>"Dean doesn’t know what he was hoping for. Maybe the reappearance of Cas. Maybe just a sign of what he should do next. Of what was supposed to happen next.</em><br/><em>But it’s late, now. He’s waited until the last possible minute to take the sheep into fold. Sammy will start worrying if he stays any longer, and Dean doesn’t have much confidence that it will make a difference if he remains.</em><br/><em>The storm hasn’t broken, but the clouds are so full that it likely will tonight. Baby and Sammy will both end up in his bed if it turns out to be as thunderous as the dark clouds promise. Dean feels like he’s going to need the comfort."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth In Every Shepherd's Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what I've been writing a paper on.
> 
> I love poems that talk to each other. There are a lot of replies to “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” but Raleigh's is probably the most famous.  
> Be forewarned, I changed some of the words because … I wanted them to make sense.  
> Dean’s poem is based on “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” by Marlowe and Cas’s poem is based on “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd” by Sir Walter Raleigh.  
> 

 

 

The climb this morning is no more difficult than that of any other, but each step feels like a decision. Perhaps if he’d let the force of his initial resolve ebb somewhat, it wouldn’t feel so weighty now. Even the air is heavy – its humidity a signal of the storm building distantly. The what-ifs that his day holds are fresh in his mind, and they’re about to reveal themselves one way or another.

He crests the hill and looks out across the plateau. The bright lawn of springtime grass spreads in one direction, and distantly, the mountain rises ahead of him. To his left lies the deep green wall of trees, so dark that it’s almost blue.

His crook sinks into the wet earth as he comes to a stop and leans a bit on it. The sheep scuttle up around him with his dog, Baby, hot on their heels, keeping them in a tight group.  
The purple-grey mist of early morning drapes itself over everything, obscuring the sheep that have made their way further towards the foot of the mountain. He whistles to Baby, and she darts out to bring them back in to where Dean can keep a closer eye on them.

He takes a steadying breath and scans the forest-line for bright flesh or a flutter of blue fabric. The lack of either has a pang of dismay surging through his stomach. Perhaps he’s just early. He _had_ rushed himself and the sheep along (though he’s loathe to admit that it was due to nerves). But, as if that twinge were all it took to summon it, a face peers out between two poplars. It seems to blindly peruse the fields in search of something or, rather, some _one_.

With a hand to the side of his mouth, Dean calls out, “Castiel!”

The face of his friend jerks towards him and the smile that spreads across Cas’s features sets Dean’s stomach aflutter. The same way it always does. Dean pushes off with his crook and begins to cross the field towards his friend.

Baby beats him to it. With a bark that startles the flock-members near her, she bounds to where the nymph stands at the edge of the trees. She’s the best shepherding dog in these mountains, but Cas never fails to distract her. She’s a lot like Dean in that respect.  
As usual, Cas kneels down to show her some affection. Her tongue lolls out as he scratches her chest, and she brazenly rolls onto her back in a silent request for tummy-rubs.  
Dean’s a bit thrown off by her interruption, but he’s grateful that it also gives him another moment to compose himself. And besides, the sight before him really is one that he never tires of seeing.  
His heart rate only speeds up the closer he gets. The words he’s prepared himself to say scroll through his mind.

He gets within a few feet of them before he whistles at her. She springs up and darts back out to where her charges graze, readily re-shifting into the role of herd-dog.

Dean’s self-preparation evades him as he watches his friend stand up. Cas shifts and adjusts his short, powder blue chiton. It flatters him immensely. Dean takes a moment to appreciate that the wood nymphs have taken to the common style of one-shoulder chitons. The view of muscular torso is tantalizing. His skin has a luminous glow, as if there’s a constant, fair blue halo around him at all times. Even in the shade of the forest and early morning.

His friend is watching Baby run away, but when Dean gets close, Cas turns to him with an affectionate smile. It’s something Dean grows more attached to the more he’s exposed to it.  
Part of Dean hopes that Castiel is aware of this.  
In combination with the rest of his features, the smile elevates his beauty beyond overwhelming. Sometimes Dean doesn’t know what to do with it. Has to look away because the ethereal quality pushes at him until he feels like it’s trying to get inside him and under his skin. And the smile doesn’t fit inside him anywhere – not his stomach, or his mind, or his heart – not anywhere but Cas’s face. Those are all places that Dean has tried to put the smile though, when it makes him feel that way. He wonders if it would fit against his neck or his own mouth if Cas were the one to put it there.  
More than wonders; he wants.

Dean has enough self-control to keep his face from wrinkling at the string of thought. On the spot metaphors always mix themselves up. He’s too blunt when he’s left by himself inside his own head for too long. In a way, that self-analysis leaves him with a measure of comfort; it’s a logical reason for what he intends this morning. Being straightforward is awkward, and revealing. Sometimes you need enough structure to be able to get your thoughts out. Thus; poetry.  
It’s one of the means by which he occupies himself in the fields. He and Sam used to play rhyme games, but since Dean has been old enough to take the sheep out on his own, the games have evolved into reflections and commentary on ideas passing through Dean’s head.

Dean stills, meeting Castiel’s eyes and smile equally. His staff sinks into the ground over here too, before he lets it fall. It frees his hands to fidget with themselves.

“Dean,” Cas greets him warmly with just the one word.

“Heya, Cas,” he returns. “How are you doin?”

“Well.” he states. “I’m glad to see you again.” But his face pinches quizzically. Ever-perceptive, he looks Dean over and asks, “What is it?”  

Dean clears his throat, “Uh, I’ve got … something to say, I guess.” He lets out a soft, nervous laugh and pastes on a smile to match. With such directness, there’s really nothing to delay him but his own inhibitions.

“Okay,” Cas tells him, his features spelling out attentiveness.

There’s air in Dean’s lungs but that’s where the words are too. He can’t get them to sit up at the back of his throat, much less jump off the tip of his tongue. He respires, thinking absurdly that it might help, might push the words out too, but it just leaves him breathless and a little lost.

Cas reaches out and brushes his knuckles down Dean’s arm comfortingly, “Take your time, Dean.” Because of course he can tell that it’s exactly what will help.

The gesture is steadying. Dean starts up, “Would you-?” But Cas has drawn his hand away and he’s breathless again. He regains his composure – inhales deeply, and on the exhale he looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes. 

“Come,” he says, an invitation – an imperative, “live with me and be my love,” Cas’s eyes widen impossibly but Dean has only just started, “and we will all the pleasures prove that valleys, groves, hills and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields.”  
That really is his dream; to experience all the places he has been or ever will be, with Castiel at his side.

Dean takes a shaky breath but it barely lasts a heartbeat, “And we will sit upon the rocks, seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, -”  
He likes walking through the sheep with Castiel. Or, he has on the very few occasions that it’s happened. And it should be noted that part of him feels irrationally selfish about the nymph. He’d never isolate him by any means, but it was somewhat of a struggle for Dean to convince himself that Cas would still want to be friends with him after meeting such a charming and wonderful substitute as his little brother. So introducing him to other people, sharing Castiel’s beauty and charm with them, is a small stretch. But Dean also knows that if he’s asking Castiel to come live with him, he wants his friends to meet Castiel. He wants Castiel to learn the names of the people in his village and to find his place among them.

Dean finds his way back to the poetry, “- By shallow rivers to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals.” Cas would love the birds of the lowlands. He’s sure there are some overlaps between the types of birds in the forest and the area surrounding Dean’s village, but the waterfowl and the few tame birds that people have would fascinate the nymph endlessly. Dean wants to see the look on his face the first time Cas encounters them.

Bravely ( _insecurely; needy_ ), Dean seeks out a point of contact. He reaches out, not even fully taking Cas’s hand, but just gripping the tips of Cas’s fingers with his own. The gesture is borderline genteel.  
“And I will make thee beds of roses,” Dean can’t help flushing at the thought of sharing a bed with Castiel, and his heart nearly beats out of his chest when he sees that his words have the same effect on the nymph. Where Dean is sure that his own blush is a bright glow that makes his freckles stand out obtrusively, Castiel’s blush is dainty and delicate – the epitome of loveliness.  
“And a thousand fragrant posies,” he continues. Castiel loves flowers. When the blossoms hang low and heavy on the trees, and Cas comes to him peering out through the foliage, he lets the blooms drape over his head and shoulders, caress his arm and smear pollen on his cheeks. Like he doesn’t notice them. Or more aptly, as though he belongs engulfed in their soft petals and sweet aroma.  

“A cap of flowers, and a girdle woven through with leaves of myrtle,” Dean’s not much for fashion, but he’s been making his and Sammy’s clothes for years now. He’s been weaving flowers together for longer – since before his brother had even been old enough to join him out in the pastures. It’s another way to pass the time in the fields. Often enough, Baby comes home with three or four garlands around her neck and a crown sitting askew on her head.

“A cloak made of the finest wool,” he offers, “which from our pretty lambs we pull.” Prize winning lambs that Castiel is utterly enchanted with. Guaranteeing that he will cherish the cloak all the more for the affection he holds for its providers.

“Fair linèd slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold.” Cas goes barefoot. It’s part of his nature as a spirit _of_ nature. There’s no necessity for shoes or cloaks. But the extravagance of the offers belies Dean’s intent.  
“A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs,”  
He can provide for him, that’s what he’s really saying. Give him gifts that Dean hand-makes himself. Simple, beautiful things; mere tokens of affection that embody all Dean is capable of giving, and all he’d like to be able to give. He will care for Cas, and he will care for him well.

Dean swallows hard, “And if these pleasures may thee move, … come live with me and be my love.”  
Castiel’s mouth hangs gently slackened. For a moment his tongue and lips work around the syllable of Dean’s name twice, but no sound comes out.  
Having managed to make it this far, Dean releases the hesitation and gives over the last stanza, “The shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each May morning,” his words come out so smoothly that they almost don’t rhyme. His delivery is not slow, but his thoughts are many and he’s hard pressed to keep them from overtaking his tongue or expressions. “If these delights thy mind may move, then _live with me_ and be my love.” He hadn’t meant to let so much emotion slip into those last words but it’s done, and he can’t quite bring himself to regret it.

He’s presented himself for Castiel. It’s nerve-wracking but absent of terror. He swallows hard and looks up at Cas to find the other man with a telling light in his eyes.  
Then the peace between them ripples.

Castiel’s face changes. Like something has begun to slip away from him and he’s watching it retreat. He reaches a hand up to wrap around Dean’s bicep, feather-light. He shifts forward on his feet, not a full step but enough so that he and Dean are nearly chest-to-chest. Cas’s eyes rove over Dean’s face, his own pulled tight in furrowed observation as he soaks up dappled, wind-worn features. Dean lets him – waiting for the next move to be made.

That small step has Dean immersed in the scent of _fresh_ and _forest_ that Cas always bears. He can’t suck it into his lungs fast enough in the seconds it takes for Castiel to press his mouth to the side of Dean’s face. His lips are rough on the apple of the shepherd’s cheek. Cas lingers and Dean’s breath is gone. The gesture is tenderness itself. But Dean feels tension, or a frown pressing at the corners, where there would ideally be a soft smile. The pressure lets up, and the nymph’s lips drag and edge towards Dean’s mouth. Dean is aware of each second of traction between chapped skin, and the stubble of his close-cut beard. Cas lifts his lips away only to lean back in and kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth – once, twice.  
With eyes lowered, Dean turns his face, wordlessly asking for more. And Cas complies so readily. There’s a breath to separate the actions, and Dean scents it again – earth and new leaves and wind – in the space it takes for Castiel to press his mouth to Dean’s. The touch is gentle, and plain. Lovely, like Castiel. The shepherd revels in the sweetness; of the taste, of the act. It’s the sort of kiss you savor when you don’t know what will come after it ends. Because, even now, the shepherd isn’t sure what to expect.  
Dean has barely sighed and relaxed into the kiss when the lips are pulled away from him. He leans, falling forward a little in a weak attempt to chase after the contact, his eyelids drawing open even as the pocket of the nymph’s smell draws back.  
He isn’t quick enough to get a final read on Cas’s face but there’s nothing he can do to keep from watching Cas pivot with swift grace towards the forest and dart back through the trees, sprinting out of view.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He raises a hand to his lips to feel where they still tingle from the warm but brief pressure. The leaves have stilled and the branches no longer sway, and Dean needs to be reassured that the moment had, indeed, just happened.

It takes a long while for him to move, but when he does, it isn’t much. He quickly checks the sheep, but finding them safe, his focus is overtaken by the forest. Dean stares up at the wall of green – the border he isn’t permitted to cross. Mortals sacrifice themselves to madness or the anti-mercies of the inhabitants of the sacred woodland if they break the boundary.

He lowers himself to the earth, crossing his legs and laying his crook over his lap as he faces the tree line. He’s as near to it as he dares. The only movements are the clouds above and the occasional, weak breeze. The shepherd sits waiting that way for the rest of the day, even until twilight.

Nothing presents itself.

Not when the questions start to surface. Not when doubts overtake him ( _self-_ doubts, specifically). Not when solutions begin to formulate (Is he willing to go after him? into the forbidden bounds of the forest? Fuck, he is, he’s willing to brave the forest to find Cas. Even just to apologize). Not when he has to start staving off self-depreciations, and old misgivings make themselves known. Not when he fixates on apologies or righting self-imagined wrongs. Not when the narrative directs itself to preparations for healing potential heartbreak.  
Just the emptiness of the blank tree line.

Dean doesn’t know what he was hoping for. Maybe the reappearance of Cas. Maybe just a sign of what he should do next. Of what was supposed to happen next.

But it’s late, now. He’s waited until the last possible minute to take the sheep into fold. Sammy will start worrying if he stays any longer, and Dean doesn’t have much confidence that it will make a difference if he remains.

The storm hasn’t broken, but the clouds are so full that it likely will tonight. Baby and Sammy will both end up in his bed if it turns out to be as thunderous as the dark clouds promise. Dean feels like he’s going to need the comfort.

❀~~~~~~~~❀~~~~~~~~❀

The hill feels steeper today.  
As if the ridge of it is intentionally hiding what lies beyond it.  
Where yesterday there had been apprehension, today there is anxiety. Full blown, overwhelming anxiety.

In his concern to perfect the words he wanted to say, Dean hadn’t had much opportunity to formulate details of expected reactions from Castiel beforehand. What he had imagined was that Castiel would react immediately. Not that he’d have to wait an entire day for something definitive or concrete; words that he could assign meaning to.

He crests the ridge, preparing at the last moment for an empty field or at least some requirement for patience. But there sits Castiel, barely outside the edge of the woods. He’s waiting where Dean had sat yesterday, in a mirror positon – cross-legged and facing the field rather than the forest.

He had been plucking at the grass, or something that had his head hanging as he watched his hands (it was difficult to tell at this distance). When Dean had come into view though, the nymph had looked up. Dean briefly thinks that Cas might have sensed his presence but then he rationalizes that the movement of sheep in his line of sight or at least their noises are more likely what actually caught the other man’s attention. Cas locking eyes with him as soon as he’d lifted his head is surely coincidence.

With uncharacteristic gracelessness, Castiel scrambles to stand, never losing eye contact with the shepherd. He goes still, with that familiar composure he always seems to be in possession of. His hands curl against each other out in front of his chest as he stands and waits, staring, for Dean to approach.

The shepherd finds it easy to make that first step. And why shouldn’t he? This is routine. But crossing the field, the whole of the situation feels oddly objective. More than familiar but less than déjà vu.

Dean steps up to him. Not tentative, because Dean belongs here. It’s Castiel who is beyond his territory.  
Even if this territory is one where he will always be welcomed.  
When the natural freshness overtakes him again, Dean is caught thinking how sweet Castiel had tasted, and wondering if that meant he had tasted unclean to the nymph.

Cas reaches out. His hand cups the empty air. Dean watches with the eyes of a scared animal – open and awaiting his fate. The fate doled by nothing but his own actions.  
Cas opens his mouth as if to start speaking, but his jaw clicks shut just as quickly as the perception can form in Dean’s mind. His eyes dart back and forth between Castiel’s. The lack of anything else is damning, but Dean does his best to stave off the sorrow welling inside him. Again, Castiel’s hand ventures from where it had fallen back to the safety of his chest. And again, it makes it no further than halfway to touching over Dean’s heart. He feels his face close off a little more at the prolonged space pushing against and between them. Then it seems Cas can’t take the silence anymore. Standing before him, as close as they are, Dean can see the shift as Castiel quietly gathers his thoughts and then forces himself to speak.

“If all the world and love were young,” he says evenly, “and truth in e-every shepherd’s tongue,” his mouth seems to stick on those words. Dean feels his heart start to fall, but he listens because he wants to hear what Cas has to say.  
“These pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love.” If the words didn’t contradict the thought, Dean might say that there was a wistful quality to what Cas was telling him.

Cas musters himself up a bit, as if the worst has come and gone. Ah, yes, initial rejection, the hardest part. Dean, at least, takes comfort in the knowledge that it’s difficult for both of them. Castiel meets his eyes, “Time drives the flocks from field to fold when rivers rage and rocks grow cold.” He’s speaking Dean’s language. It’s more than appropriating the lyrics of Dean’s own poem. He’s using words that Dean lives and _feels_ every day.  
“And Philomel becometh dumb; the rest complains of cares to come.” There’s something sour in his voice, and then the air when he goes silent to emphasize the last line. An appropriately applied break in the lyrics to underscore the musical rest of the mute songbird. Only, silence between them hasn’t ever been hollow. It’s filled with meaning and thought, or sounds of their surroundings.  
Something twists inside Dean to think that the name “Philomela” means “lover of sheep”.

Quietly he picks up again, “The flowers do fade, and wanton fields to wayward winter reckoning yields,” he speaks with natural sagacity in his voice. But the words are not his own.  
To call the fields wanton is to call all of nature wanton. It’s an idea counter to everything Castiel has ever expressed to Dean. The fields are entropic. They’re the birthplace of forests and the sustenance of everything from bees to horses. The fields are no deliberately violent action; no promiscuous woman. They change and grow by season, drying up in the winter, only to come back in the spring.  
But of course Dean knows Cas is speaking to more than that. And Dean is sure that part of the “more” is calling _him_ wanton.  
Dean feels the pained vexation push through and make itself known on his face. Cas seems to catch sight of it, because he falters before he can say the next line.  
“A honey tongue,” Cas pauses, and it gives Dean time to wonder if his own words are to be a participant in his downfall. He waits but Castiel seems lost in finishing his sentence. His eyes fall from Dean’s face, trail down his chest until Cas is gazing at the ground. Dean wants to cup his chin and find his stare once more. One of them swallows audibly, but Dean can’t tell who.  
“A honey tongue,” Cas says again, “a heart of gall,” and now Dean can hear that Castiel is choked up, “is fancy’s spring, … but sorrow’s fall.”  
The heart of gall remark stings.  
He can only imagine how much more biting it would be if Cas sounded remotely sincere. It’s a reprimand of boldness – how dare Dean presume his worth to be measureable against a semi-god? – and an accusation of malice. It only speaks to Dean’s carelessness, how much he’s let Cas down and failed to give foundation to his words or carry across their meaning. Dean is hurt, _so hurt_ , but Cas seems like he’s parroting words and he sounds pained and insincere saying the cold phrases.

Castiel is meeting his eyes again. “Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,” the words drain out of him, “thy cap, thy girdle, and thy posies,” his mouth tightens into a line, “Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten –“

He would make more for him. What Cas describes as wanton and short-lived (no matter if he means it or not) is the reason – the necessity for Dean to remain with him. The reasons Dean is needed; to provide for him. Dean would be there to remake or rebuild or-

But Cas isn’t finished critiquing the gifts, “In folly ripe,” he swallows and almost seems to choke when he finishes by saying, “in reason rotten.”

This is just encouraging the idea that Cas _doesn’t need him_. The basis of Dean’s entire argument, the only hope he’d held of convincing Cas to love him back is being totally refuted. And all Dean can conceive is that this is what it means to despair.

“They belt of straw and ivy buds, thy coral clasps and amber studs,” his words are strangled sweetly, “All these in me no means can move to come to thee …” Cas looks back and forth between Dean’s eyes, “and be thy love.”

And that’s really it, isn’t it? He’s chosen the most reasonable argument, the one Dean had to fight tooth and nail to even get enough leeway with himself to be able to formulate the poem and ask Cas.  
Dean simply can’t give Castiel all that he deserves.  
And now Cas is watching him with wariness, along with something else that Dean is afraid might be pity. He can hardly stand it. There’s an urge – an itching in his calves to turn and sprint away from this failure, this humiliation, and the brokenness that his thoughtless actions have obviously brought to their relationship. Dean sees the hopelessness closing in, feels it even as Cas wraps up his poem.

“But could youth last and love still breed,” his voice is low and steady again, “Had joys no date nor age no need,”  
Oh, gods, his _mortality_. He’d prayed that it wouldn’t be part of it. That there would be some means to ignore such a fundamental fact, or that neither of them would think to mention it at all. But he’s _human_. Forget all his simple gifts, flowers regrow, but Dean himself is temporary. And he’d somehow deluded himself into thinking that Cas wouldn’t mind. That Cas might be able to love him even though Dean is so much lesser than the nymph.  
“Then these delights my mind might move,” there’s a strain on his placating words. Dean thinks – knows – that no real consolation will be had in them. The disbelief and sorrow must ring loudly in his features, because something causes Cas to finally uncoil enough to reach his hand all the way out and land it atop Dean’s chest, over his heart. And Dean meets his eyes once more as he finishes; “To live with thee and be thy love.”

Dean swallows. His misery congeals around the futile promise. An apology that can’t bandage the cut inflicted by his rationales.

Dean turns to glance over his shoulder at the flock. Baby lies calmly in the grass, tail flicking twice before falling still again as she watches over her charges.

When he turns back, he searches Cas’s face. Tries to see if there’s anything left on it to be read. Or to give meaning, understanding, _hope_ –  
But all he can hear is the betrayal still ringing in his ears. His own, but more pressingly, Castiel’s. There’d been betrayal in the nymph’s words – his _voice,_ even.  
_As if he were the one being betrayed_ , Dean realizes. _As if he’s been told something that makes him feel betrayed_.

But he chokes off the budding thought, feeling his own wounds begin to fester.

“Do-?” Dean cuts himself off to clear his throat, “Do you really believe that?”

“I …“ Castiel looks as if he’s been caught off guard, “I don’t want to.”

Dean regards him – his locked stance, his meaningful observation of Dean. “But you think it’s true enough to say.”

Castiel’s breath catches, “Dean- …”  
His hand shifts where it still rests against Dean’s pectoral. Dean nods in resignation at the non-sentence and averts his gaze, focusing on a thatch of clover at Cas’s feet, following to where it starts a few steps to the left, so his head isn’t so much hanging as it is turned away.

Dean reaches up to take hold of his wrist, lets his thumb slide slowly up the veins and over the knob at the base of Castiel’s hand. The rest of his fingers bend firmly around it and he draws the hand away from conciliatory point of contact. Castiel’s fingers curl more, the further they retreat from Dean’s chest. When Dean releases his grip, the hand sinks slowly to Castiel’s side. Without lifting his eyes, Dean takes a step back and inclines his head in a nod.

“Bye, Cas,” he hears himself whisper.

After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel takes it for the dismissal that it is and lets the forest enfold him. Dean swallows heavily, even now when he’s by himself, and continues to stare at the clover buds. A few sheep bleat and looks over his shoulder, body tensing in alertness, but it’s only Baby trying to play with a few of them. He pivots and whistles at her as he walks towards the flock. Her head jerks up at his call and she bounds over, trotting behind him until he climbs up onto a rock near the edge of the field beside the height of the plateau, just where it begins to slope. He sits on the lowest part of the boulder so that he can reach down and pet her. He’s glad for the contact, and she’s content with the head scratches for a while.

Dean doesn’t register much for however long he sits like that. He feels rather … numb. The repetitive motion of his hand over Baby’s fur and the thick clouds that obscure the sky make it difficult to catalogue the passage of time. He mostly snaps out of it when Baby sits up suddenly, looking out to the sheep with a whine. Dean follows her gaze and sees the flock beginning to sprawl a bit too far so he sends her out to them, but he doesn’t call her back.

And suddenly, evening is upon him.

Dean looks across the darkening field at the restless sheep and berates himself for his inattentiveness. One of the sheep could have wandered off or a predator could have snuck up on them. Baby is impeccable at her job but she can only do so much.  
He climbs down off the rock feeling worse than ever for shirking his duties, and telling himself that he’s had the day to mope, which is more time than he should have taken to do so. Mourning what he’s broken won’t repair it. And continuing to do so will only endanger his flock.  
He calls to Baby, and together they drive the sheep down the mountainside and homeward.  

 

As he goes to sleep that night, he purses his lips and thinks of how Castiel’s kiss tasted.

❀~~~~~~~~❀~~~~~~~~❀

The world is wet the next morning.  
Baby wakes him begging to be let out and he sets about getting ready.  
There’s a light drizzle as they begin their trek, but the brunt of the storm happened overnight again, so Dean isn’t worried enough to stay home. And he’s glad for it.

His footing is careful and the sheep keep a slow pace to avoid slipping on the water-logged hillside. Once it tables, he doesn’t slow his efforts. His legs move to propel but the world feels like it’s moving around him instead of the other way around. The sounds of Baby and the sheep fall away. The grass squeaks underfoot and the forest looms.

Dean feels the poem pour through him, relives it line by line, and like a sponge Dean soaks up what all of it means when it’s put together.

He didn’t defend himself and that’s not right. Castiel is … Cas is someone that Dean loves. And Dean loves him enough to fight for him.

 “Castiel?” He calls out to the wall of green. “Castiel? I’ve come back.” He pauses. “I decided …” he trails off. “I decided I want to know why.”

He watches the foliage as the sound of his voice falls from the air. He wouldn’t be quite so loud if he had a door to bang on to reinforce his appeal, but he’s got to make up the difference with his voice. He hears branches rustling and then -

“You came back,” Cas states, as if Dean hadn’t just announced so himself.

“I know you probably don’t -“

“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again,” Cas interrupts – brash, but words coming out in a tender, fragile voice. It sounds so unlike him that for a moment Dean wonders if he is in fact speaking to someone else.

“No. No, you’re the one who shouldn’t want to see me. A-after I’d presumed-“

“Dean, I turned you away.”

Dean feels his face twist in discomfort and he clears his throat, “It was a fair response to an unfair request.”

“It didn’t feel like a request,” Cas says, like maybe he’s mistaken and he doesn’t want to be corrected, “It felt like an offer.”

Dean ducks his head and nods, “Okay, yeah. It- , Offer is a good word for it.” He licks his lips.

“I thought … ” Cas looks so unsure. Either of the current circumstances or of Dean himself. “What would make you come back to see me?” And he sounds genuinely confused.

“Cas, I was only gonna stay away because I thought that you wouldn’t want to see me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel’s eyes have widened and his voice is something desperate that the shepherd can’t read.

“I- I came back because I wanted to know why,” suddenly he feels a loss of faith in his mission, “And obviously, you don’t have to tell me, but I’d … I’d like to know.” He smartens up, “I think I deserve to know.”

Cas still looks lost, “You came here wanting to … to know why?”

Dean refuses to deflate, then he refuses to ask what he really wants; “Why you thought all your arguments were true. And why you believe them,” he says.

Cas’s body ripples. His arms flex and fists form at Dean’s assertion, in a defensive gesture. Dean can feel the air shift around them and he’s sure part of it has nothing to do with emotional charge and everything to do with Castiel’s supernatural power.

“I told you yesterday that I didn’t want to believe them.”

“And then you didn’t say differently when I asked if you did. So, why?”

“Dean- “ Cas’s restraint is obvious. “Dean, I don’t even know if I believe them enough to stand by them anymore.”

“Why would you say it if you don’t believe it?” Dean asks again, fishing for the name of the liar who filled Castiel’s head with doubt. Momentarily forgetting the logic of the arguments.

“They’re valid points, you know that.”

“Yes. What else?”  
There’s more than what Cas is saying.

“When you first told me,” there isn’t hesitation but the nymph is still keeping himself in check, “I didn’t know what to think.”

Immediately, Dean’s anxiety skyrockets and his stomach clenches as his mind flashes to the kiss. Suddenly he’s afraid that the gesture didn’t hold the same ( _or any_ ) meaning to Cas. That the one good thing that had come of this – untainted if only because Dean didn’t understand it or its purpose – had no place being held in any such regard.

“I left because I needed time to myself. I wanted time to logic all of it out and to strategize about how we could make this work. If nothing else, before I came to you I had to tie up my loose ends with my clan.” Cas balls his hands together, holding them over his solar plexus as he contemplates the sheep before meeting Dean’s eyes again, “You have to understand, my people- Our laws and the forest itself has no allowance for coexisting with humans. We have to separate ourselves. It’s why I can’t come to you every day, you know that.”

Dean is well aware of the fact, having been fearful only minutes before that today would be an occasion on which Cas couldn’t come to him. But he doesn’t nod or otherwise indicate his understanding.

Cas leaves room for him to speak which goes without acknowledgement. The nymph sighs, and continues; “But I sneak away whenever a free moment strikes because being with you is important to me. I enjoy your company and at the moment, it would seem you have no idea how happy it makes me that you enjoy mine.”

This doesn’t excuse the false hope he let Dean feel. It’s a lot of mixed signals, and what sounds like misunderstandings. So the shepherd holds his tongue in the hopes of getting more answers.

“I didn’t know what this would mean for either of us if we acted on this, so I left. I had hoped …” Cas seems to reconsider his words. “I wasn’t able to think clearly. I hoped that the kiss would have made my intentions – my _feelings_ clear.”

“It didn’t.”

Cas looks like he was expecting Dean’s response. “I suppose not.”

“Yesterday it felt like the kiss was the exact opposite of what your feelings were.”  
It hadn’t, not really. Cas had sounded desperate rather than sincere. But the nymph’s words had hurt. He wants Cas to offer excuses. And Dean is nothing if not importunate.

“That wasn’t my intention. The kiss was truly an emotional reaction.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“I walked around tasting you the rest of the day. Which, whether I was imagining it or not, felt real enough.”

The hedging is beginning to bother Dean. “Cas-“

“There isn’t a way I can express how upset I was when I realized I _would_ have to reject you,” Cas blurts out. His eyes register heartfelt sadness, “I was inconsolable.” This is the first he’s sounded like this since yesterday; on the verge of something breaking.

“One of us had to say no, I just hate that it had to be me.”

Dean’s face pinches briefly but he doesn’t know which direction to take this.

“I was more upset by your reaction than you likely realized, if only because of how crestfallen you looked. And then you just wanted me to leave. I don’t blame you but I thought that was going to be the last conversation we had, the way you acted. As if I was only worth as much as I could provide for you romantically or sexually. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

Like this, Cas seems so vulnerable; awkward, as if he thinks he’s embarrassing himself.

Dean isn’t having it: “You can’t possibly think that’s all you mean to me.”

Cas shakes his head but Dean doesn’t know if the gesture is in regards to his remark or just at the general state of things.

“I pretended to myself that we could go on as we always had.”

“I never meant to –“ Dean starts.

“Your words are what I’ve wanted to hear for so long … what I’ve been afraid to hear because of what it would mean for us.”  
Dean had seen the difficulty with which Cas had spoken yesterday, but now he realizes that the other man, too, is wounded. Cas looks at him questioningly and Dean feels earnestness etch itself onto his own features.

“You said,” Dean starts, “… you said that I had a honey tongue and a heart of gall.”

“Your heart is pure,” Cas declares with surety, “as are your intentions. But I needed something that would deter you. I thought a firm insult would protect us both. Obviously it hasn’t, but it was meant to be taken in combination with my other dissuasions.  
“I’ve been told that there’s a fine line between what we want and what should be. It was what I was trying to prove with my argument because I’ve seen it happen time and time again.”

He’s calling Dean naïve; marking his methods as simple. Saying the shepherd is too young to know any better, but experienced enough so that he should.  
Cas is old. He knows the earth and he knows nature. He also knows himself.  
But Dean wonders if part of him isn’t jaded.

“Dean I’ve been alive since this forest was a grove of young ash-trees. And in all these hundreds of years I haven’t ventured far enough from this place to see much of anything. But I do know that humans lie, and they’re selfish.”  
Dean isn’t fazed by the generality, nor does he try to defend his species, but he’s in shock that –  
“And I can’t quite bring myself to believe those things of you – it isn’t your nature to try and hurt people. Especially not- …” Cas cuts himself off, like he isn’t sure of the truth or validity or belief behind what he was going to say. But Dean reads him like a book.

“No, Cas. Say it: Especially not you.” He watches the nymph’s face for doubt, “It’s the truth. I’d-“

Cas shakes his head, “Not on purpose. I- I believe that you wouldn’t try to hurt me on purpose. But … Humans are careless.” His fist clenches like he’s admitted something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek.  
“I- I’d … I wouldn’t be careless with you.” He’d tried to make that clear with all his talk of precious gifts. He’d been sure the message would carry.

This is the problem with solitary poetry composition; you don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off of to see if what you’re saying ( _trying to say_ ) can be heard by others.

“You’re right.” Dean says with a deadness. “There’s nothing I can give you that would be worth … I can’t offer you anything. But I didn’t mean-“ he huffs at is inarticulateness, “I wasn’t trying to suggest, or to persuade you with stupid trinkets. I thought you’d understand-“

“It doesn’t matter, Dean,” and Dean is about to protest that it _does_ matter to him because he needs Cas to understand, but Cas continues, “Nothing more can convince me. There isn’t anything in the world that could make me …” he looks helplessly at the shepherd. A far-reaching exasperation seems to overtake him, “Dean you’re enough.” he insists. “I can’t want to come with you any more than I already do.”

“Then why not?” Dean’s on the verge of letting out a sob and giving into the tears clogging the back of his throat. He reaches up and claps a hand to the upper side of Cas’s neck, letting his thumb stroke over the corner of the nymph’s jaw and lower cheek. Castiel’s lashes flutter at the contact. “Why not?”

Dean baits his breath as his friend reaches up to cover Dean’s hand with his own. He strokes over the knuckles and it stills Dean’s ministrations. Cas drags Dean’s hand from his jaw with slow surety. Taking his time even now.

The look on his face must be pleading because Cas entwines their fingers even as he shakes his head, “Dean, I can’t leave the forest. You know I can’t. And I’d never in a thousand lifetimes ask you to leave Sam.”

Dean glances, desperate and angry, to the boundary that divides him from Cas.

“But you would?”

Castiel inclines his head at the vague question.

“If you could leave the forest or if I could leave Sam, you’d have me? You’d want me?”

“Have I not just said as much?” Cas is open and is making an attempt at reassurance. His eyes flick back and forth between the shepherds’.

Achingly familiar insecurity bites at him, pushes him to push Castiel.

“Do you love me?”

Cas tilts his head, sorrow evident as he reaches up with his free hand, knuckles over Dean’s ruddy cheek, “More than- ... Yes, of course.”

The nymph’s sincerity greets Dean as a jolt of solace. He closes his eyes, clinging to the sensations welling through him. He finds the courage and faith to argue:

“Life is not a single year,” he states, meeting Cas’s gaze, “There will be more seasons. Time to grow; time to be spent with one another. Time for things to change.”

He can tell Cas is listening and he’s aiming to encourage the flicker of hope he thinks he catches in the nymph’s eyes.

“People by nature are not constant – no living being is. Because nature is not constant. Nothing that lives goes unchanged.”

Cas’s touch lies heavy where his hand has fallen to the base of Dean’s neck.

“Cruelty, mortality – those are side effects of humanity. But you know me. Despite the flaws of my race, you know I’m true. Loyal, not fickle.” Dean wets his lips nervously, “Promises hurt. It’s never been easy for me to try and dedicate myself. But when I do, I mean it.”

His words feel finely milled and golden. A light to guide them both towards mutual satisfaction as they tumble out between them, _cascading forth_.

“Woolgathering comes naturally to me,” Dean tells him with a contrived smile – a pun and a truth. “I can say pretty things all day, but it’s hard for me to be honest about my feelings. I had hoped … I had hoped you’d be able to read what I meant into it. But you hoped the same of me and we got nowhere.”

“Then be honest with me now,” Cas implores. He inches closer. “I love your sweet words, but I don’t always know what you mean. And I’m afraid to wonder if they meant what I wanted them to mean.” Cas links their hands and twines their fingers together, “Tell me now how you feel.”

“I love you,” Dean proclaims.

And there it is. More than what the poem said, but also what was hidden between its lyrics.

“I love you,” he avows a second time, “and I was presenting my case in the hopes that you could love me too.”

Cas smiles benevolently, “You had me before you even asked.”

But it’s not an agreement to Dean’s request by any means.

“I can’t imagine my life without you, Cas,” Dean entreats.

“There’s still the matter of your mortality.”  
The comment strikes Dean as a blow. But Cas startles him with the agony in his voice:  
“I don’t know how I’d be able to cope with losing you, if we became romantic. If I allowed myself the tenderness and intimacy I desire so much with you. Even now if we only remained platonic in action, I don’t think I’d ever stop mourning you. The pain that more would lead to is … unimaginable.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes out, soft as a rose petal; soft like a lamb’s breath, “Cas, you’re breakin’ my heart. You can’t think that telling me that would make me want to be with you any less.” Dean reaches up and wraps his arms around Cas’s neck, pulling them flush and pressing his cheek to the nymph’s. “ _Gods_ , if I didn’t want to before, I sure as shit do now.”

Cas’s arms float up to cradle Dean’s torso, pressing a hand between his shoulder blades and one to his lower back, “You really mean that?”

Dean tucks his nose closer to Cas’s neck, “Of course. Even if I weren’t in love with you, you’re my best friend. I’d never- … You shouldn’t have to feel alone like that. I’d do anything I could to stay with you. For as long as you’d have me.”

That seems to give Cas pause; he leans back to look at Dean.

“We could find a way, can’t we?” The shepherd offers, even as the terrifying trials of other mortals who have sought eternal life flit through the forefront of his mind. “There are- There’s means of becoming immortal, yeah?”

“Dean, think of what that would mean for Sam.”

“Let me worry about Sam.”

“He’s my friend too,” Cas begins to protest, but Dean isn’t having it.

“I’ll talk to him. Who knows, maybe he’ll want to come with us – the kid would jump at the chance to cram as much knowledge into his head as possible. And immortality is a pretty decent way of going about doing that.”

“This is … a big step.”

“I know. And it’s one I want to take.”

That seems to please the nymph.  
“Would you consider-, that is, … would you want to become a nature spirit?” Cas shyly wonders.

Dean smiles, “You mean like you?” he asks. “You’d like that? If we were the same?”

A faint blush tints Castiel’s face, mirroring Dean’s own apple-cheeked expression. There’s something intimate about the thought. Dean likes it very much. Cas nods and if it were anyone else, the gesture would seem coy.

“Yeah, Cas. That’d be great. I think it would be real nice.”

Cas leans in and buries his hot face against Dean’s neck. The shepherd reaches up to wrap his arms all the way around Cas’s shoulders.

Dean enjoys the moment before the impulse to reassure himself forces him to break it; “Does this mean you’re actually considering us … being together? For real?”

Cas is motionless for an instant, but with caution, he nods and his nose bounces between the tendons of Dean’s neck and his collarbone. Dean grins and squeezes his grip tighter.

“There’s still the issue of the forest,” Cas murmurs. “I’m not sure how we’d live together.”

“We’ll find a way,” Dean assures him, “I could make myself a little cabin up here if I had to. It’d take a while but it wouldn’t be too bad.”

Dean feels the stillness of Cas holding his breath.

“Or I could find another patron,” the nymph suggests hesitantly. “Take a cutting of my home tree and see if another god or goddess would provide me shelter and protection.”

The shepherd leans back, prompting Cas to do the same. Dean searches his eyes.

Cas meets his gaze, “The Oreiades live not too far from here, on the mountain itself. And Aphrodite is known for her benevolence in matters of the heart.”

“Cas … I couldn’t-“

“You’d be willing to move, change your lifestyle for me. I’m willing to do the same. And there’s far less keeping me here than you’d think. It would be nice to find a new place together, with you.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks softly.

Cas nods and reaches up to cup Dean’s jaw in both hands. He’s a force of nature incarnate, but he always acts so gently with his weathered shepherd. Dean’s fingers rest clinging to the nymph’s hips, bunching the fabric at the sides of his tunic. What a pair they make: two brawny men of the wilderness quietly basking in each other’s presence, weighing the future.

There’s a distant roll of thunder, promising more rain in the evening. Cas takes a deep breath with closed eyes, as if the sound is calling to him. He looks beautiful like this, at peace for the first time in three days.

“Cas,” Dean summons his awareness.

The nymph’s lids flutter open and his smile widens into the sweet, gummy thing Dean loves. It falls into something more serene as Dean shifts closer. They both lean in together until their lips meet. The kiss blooms sweetly.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I handle my thirst for long distance AUs, because it’s basically the same principle
> 
> Exits are to your left, your right, and your rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always, very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.
> 
> Other responses to Marlowe include:  
> “The Baite” by John Donne  
> “Song” by Cecil Day Lewis  
> “Raleigh Was Right” by William Carlos Williams  
> “Williams Was Wrong” by Greg Delanty  
> “Love Under the Republicans (or Democrats)” by Ogden Nash  
> “Invitation” by W. D. Snodgrass  
> “Covenant” by Douglas (Doug) Crase  
> “To Phyllis, To Love and Live with Him” by Robert Herrick
> 
>  
> 
>    **If you like this fic you may also like:**  
> [To Die With the Flock or Live With the Damned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426858) by [JinxedAmbitions](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxedAmbitions/pseuds/JinxedAmbitions)  
> [Take You To the Country](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301445) by [almaasi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi)  
> [Dancing with Dryads](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6131310) by [Aria_Lerendeair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Lerendeair/pseuds/Aria_Lerendeair)


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